


Winter by Candlelight

by boys_in (kaleidosphere)



Series: Lysinette Week 2020 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angst, Childhood Friends, Developing Relationship, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fantasy, Fluff, Friendship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaleidosphere/pseuds/boys_in
Summary: "Will I ever see you again?""I hope not.""Because you hate me?""No. It's because I like you so much that I hope I never see you."-In winter, Annette finds beauty.In summer, Lysithea finds truth.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Lysithea von Ordelia, Annette Fantine Dominic/Lysithea von Ordelia, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: Lysinette Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1667251
Kudos: 17





	Winter by Candlelight

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a really long two-shot demons & angels AU, fulfilling the "light & dark" theme for Day 2 of [Lysinette Week!](https://twitter.com/lysinetteweek/status/1217928065944367106) The second part should be up sometime this week, but I've had this idea since the prompts were released, haha. Maybe I took the light & dark themes a little too far? Anyway, your reads, kudos, and comments are greatly appreciated (especially since, again, I've switched up my styles for this one). Thanks for dropping by and I hope you enjoy!

Today, Annette is five years old. She bumbles through the meadows, covered in grass while kicking up her knees, pretending to be her father on the march. She wears brambles in her hair, and clutches daisies in her hands until her fingertips are stained yellow. She sings a song about cake, her favorite food in the world, and how much she'd love to eat a cake made out of flowers—er, a cake made out of weeds? She pauses, her eyes widening at the very thought: a cake made out of _grass!_

"Grass," she whispers. "Yucky." She knows the taste of grass. It is like dirt, which gets on her shoes, so grass tastes like shoes. And she likes her shoes, make no mistake about it, because her mother bought them for her on her fourth birthday. They are baby-blue loafers which click at the heels, and she clunks her feet against each other, loosening the mud stuck to the soles and wondering if it tastes like grass, too.

When she looks up from her feet, she makes eye contact with another girl. This girl is not like Mother, or Father, or even little Annie herself. Her hair is not the sky right before it falls asleep, or a candle burning low and strong into the night. Her hair is not tangerine, bright and summery as it curls at her neck.

She is not summer.

This girl has hair as white as snow, and it's so long that Annette feels jealous—she wants hair that reaches her ankles, too! So long that she wants to put her hands in it, and play with it like Mother plays with _her_ hair, pinning it up in a spiral, tying it back into a tail, or braiding it so that it loops behind her, the spitting image of Annette. Instead, the hair is long, untamed, falling into her eyes and into the world around her.

Her eyes are the color of peaches—no, of the sky when it wakes up early? Annette envisions the flowers in Father's garden: the hibiscus and hydrangeas and gladiolus in full bloom. Her eyes are flowers.

The girl is cold, wintry white, and the gardens of her eyes are barren, unattended to. Annette finds these thoughts so very funny, but is afraid to approach her, nonetheless. She is always advised not to talk to strangers, but they never told her what to do in case she meets another little girl.

Because little girls are a lot of things, but they are never strange! "Hello," Annette greets in spite of herself. "Hello, who are you?"

"I am…" the girl's voice is high and bright, but weak. It collapses on itself and stays down. She shakes her head back and forth. "I do not know you," she says, as if Annette does not know that.

But she knows that. "Do you wanna know?"

The other girl is lost. "Wanna know? Wanna know what?"

"Do you wanna know _me?"_ Annette steps closer, and holds her hands behind her back as she sways. "I like your hair."

The girl acts as if she is not used to her own hair, before flipping the strands behind her narrow shoulders. "Thank you, but I like your hair more."

"Hehe, really? Mother says I've got fire in me!" Annette's smile is wide, unfiltered. She pours all her happiness into what she thinks is genuine. "But there's no fire in you. I don't see it."

"F-Fire?" She takes a step back, looking fearful. Annette remembers how flowers will wilt, shrivel, and disappear one day, even if she loves them with all her heart. This girl is the same—the feeling is familiar. "I don't want fire in me, no thanks!"

"It's okay," Annette reassures. She reveals her hands, stuffed sweaty with flowers, and offers the whitest daisies to the strange new girl. "You have winter, instead."

Her fingers are trembling as she takes the flowers, but her voice is so still, and calm. "Winter. I like the wintertime."

Annette smiles wider. "Me too!"

"I need to go," she says. "Um, will you come back to see me?"

"Here?" Annette doesn't live far away. She can sing three songs in the time it takes to get here from her little backyard. "I will! But when?"

"Winter," she answers definitively. "Wintertime."

If those words are important, Annette doesn't show it, as she wears the same inoffensive smile from before. Her hands are sweaty, so she decides not to grab the girl's hand. Instead, she nods once, and turns on her heels to face the other direction. "I'll see you in winter," she calls out. "Be safe!"

Without waiting for an answer, Annette begins the march home.

Her shoes are dirty.

/

/

Today, Annette is five and a half years old. The first snow sticks to the ground, and Mother warns her not to stay out too long. Father is more forgiving, so he merely tells Annette to be safe while kissing her forehead, and fastening the buttons on her big, fluffy coat.

She sings three songs as she skips to the meadows nearby her home, thinking of fire and ice and a girl with white hair. When she finishes the third song, she finds herself alone in the field, with frost-covered grass curling at her ankles, and an icy wind biting at her cheeks.

Annette blinks after what feels like a speck of dirt gets into her eyes, and she spends two songs' worth of time trying to rub her eyes clean. The speck is chewing on her skin, needling its way into her core through her eyes—through her _soul,_ or that's what Mother said. Annette isn't sure what the bottoms of her feet have to do with her eyes, though.

"It's you!"

She squeaks, unable to hide the mouse in her chest and the fear in her voice. Luckily, the dirt is gone, and her eyes burn but they are clean. And she blinks the struggle out of her eyes, only to see the Winter Girl again.

Her hair is even longer than before, and she wears a long, indigo cloak. The snow camouflages into her as it falls, and Annette watches as the ice settles on her body like a fine layer of dust. "You," Annette parrots. "You came!"

"I told you I'd be here, in the wintertime."

"Right! Here, these are for you!" Annette reveals her hands from behind her back. When they first met, she gave up the daisies she found in the gardens outside of her home. This time, she has a cluster of snowbells hanging from the stem, little ornaments on a shared branch. She offers them to her, pushing eagerly against the girl's hesitant hands.

"Thank you," she says. "You always bring me flowers: why?"

"Why?" Annette hums as she ponders this. "Why not?"

"...Why not…"

"Let's play!"

Winter Girl nods once. "Okay."

They dance and dream in the frost-covered fields. The whole time, Annette is holding her hand, and the other girl keeps her left fist clenched around the snowbells. The petals do not fall off, instead shimmer like the moon as weak daylight illuminates their path.

Eventually, they take a break from playing. They lie down in the grass, cold and shivering, but happy to share in discomfort with each other. Then they stand up and stretch, and Annette breaks the silence with a question.

"Do you live in the Kingdom?" Her eyes are locked on Winter Girl, who holds the flowers in her hand like they are very, very delicate—and they're not! They have played for hours and hours on end, and not a single petal has disappeared. "I live three songs away!"

"Three songs away?" Her eyes blink. "You're weird."

"Hey!" Annette pouts. "I am not! I just like to sing!"

"You are very weird," she insists. "But I like it."

Annette wonders why her face feels warm when it is winter all around her. She clings onto the feeling, glancing down at her feet. "Oh."

"I never told you my name," she reminds her. "You never told me yours, either."

"Oh, right."

"I've been calling you Candlelight," she admits, cheeks darkening. "But it's weird, isn't it?"

"I like that!" Annette grins. "Oh, I _love_ that name."

"D-Don't be silly, that's not even a real name."

"Why not?" Annette puffs out her chest proudly, slamming a hand against her coat's left-pocket for emphasis. "From now on, my name is Candlelight Dominic!"

Then, the strangest thing happens. Winter is cold and white, but Annette never feels weak when it snows. Yet as soon as she speaks, the girl's playful expression falls off, and her eyes turn dark. Storm clouds and dish water, Annette thinks. Mud and darkness.

And she shivers as the air turns icy, winds whipping around them in a frenzy. The petals of the snowbells stay in place, but Annette feels her coat unfastening, and the laces of her boots untying themselves in the gales. She feels the knots in her own hair coming undone, letting her fiery strands fly in the sudden storm.

She waits, and Winter Girl's eyes are so dark they look like holes. Her hair flies out like curtains around her, obscuring her mouth and whipping her shoulders.

Two horns protrude from her head. One of them is tall, and arcs high as the moon above her, angling inward like a crown. The other is short, stubby, and broken off at the base, leaving only a raven-black stump with indigo rings within.

A sharp pain resonates through Annette's lower back, and she crumples to the ground—a doll. "Ow!" she cries out. "W-What's going on? This hurts!"

"You're from House Dominic," the girl merely says. Her voice is empty, despite sounding so full. "You are an _angel._ I knew something was wrong, I knew it!"

"Angel?"

Annette looks over her shoulder, flames snuffed out, growing colder at the realization. Her white coat is made of fluffy wool, to keep her warm. Mother calls her a sheep when she wears this jacket, and Father says she is a cloud, rather, one without rain. None of that is right, however. Neither of them understand.

There are no clouds, wool, sheep, or coats. There are only _wing_ s, pearlescent and wide, sprouting from her back, shooting up like weeds. There are wings, and they are white and feathery, every bit a dove and nothing like fire, grass, music, or sweets.

Those wings do not belong to Annette.

She sobs. "What happened? Did you—did you do something?!"

"I am a demon." She makes it sound as if it is common knowledge, like a secret Annette has long since been privy to. "In the presence of a demon, an angel will always reveal themselves."

"I-I don't understand!" Mother always says that Annie is smart for her age, but this girl is something else entirely. She sounds like her mother, her father, and her teachers when she speaks like that. She must know so many things that Annette can only dream of knowing. "I just wanted to play with you!"

"...You are from the Holy Kingdom, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm from the Kingdom!" _But there aren't any holes in it!_

"I am from the Alliance—the _Leicester_ Alliance," she says the word like it's supposed to be important, but Annette is confused further. "We are enemies."

"No we're not! I like you, I like your hair, and I like your eyes! I wanna be _friends!"_ Annette cries out, folding over herself in defeat. Those strange wings—not _her_ wings, never _her_ wings—are hurtful. Her back aches and itches, and maybe she shouldn't curl up like this, because it makes it ache and itch even more, but she doesn't know what else to do. "Tell me your name," she begs. "I've been—been calling you Winter Girl."

Not-Winter Girl frowns. Her horns seem smaller, now, and her eyes surface from the void they were once in—although Annette is still curled up, so it's hard to stare at her for a long period of time. So much discomfort, so much pain. "I am Lysithea," she finally says. "I am a demon. You must never say your full name in front of a demon."

Annie thinks about her middle name, and tries her best to ignore it. Yet her head is repetitive and stupid, constantly needing the word _Fantine Fantine Fantine_ to be repeated, in case she might forget. She shuts her eyes closed, and ignores the way a feather drifts down from the wings, and flutters to her feet. "Why?"

Lysithea goes quiet, then murmurs, "Because most demons will hurt you, or try to control you. Even if you are an _angel,_ I...I wanna be friends, too. I like you too, Annette."

She gasps. "You do?"

"I do. But my parents said not to talk to angels," Lysithea tells her. The winds are no longer icy, but the air is stale and heavy in its place. "I-I'm sorry. I need to leave."

Annette carefully stands to her feet. Her back hurts _so_ much, and the wings won't go away, but she ignores them and stares at Lysithea, hoping her eyes are windows that lead to something beautiful. "Will I ever see you again?"

"I hope not," Lysithea says.

"Because you hate me?" Annette offers.

Lysithea smiles for the first time, but it is nothing like a smile is supposed to be. A smile is Father making funny faces, or Mother singing the tickling song. A smile is freshly-baked pie with a cherry on top, or the way sunflowers grow facing the sun. A smile is reading a very good book, or learning all sorts of new things. A smile is everything.

Lysithea smiles, and for the first time in her life, Annette feels nothing.

"No," she tells her, with finality. "It's because I like you so much that I hope I never see you."

/

/

Today, Annette is seven years old. She is an angel, as Lysithea helped her to discover, and her parents are always so sorry for not explaining things to her sooner. In the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, angels live in peace and harmony, and the leader of the angels is known as the Archangel Blaiddyd. There was once a being known as the Goddess, but she has disappeared, or so Father says. Only angels live in the Kingdom, now.

The Holy Kingdom is half of a whole. There is a place called the Adrestian Empire, where the first angel (as well as the Goddess) is said to have come from. Mother says no one lives in the Empire anymore, but the most beautiful flowers grow in the ruins of what once was. Annette makes a note to read more books to understand all the words she's saying.

Then, there is the Leicester Alliance. Legend says that angels displeased with the Kingdom ran away, abandoning angelhood and all it has to offer. Those angels turned into _demons,_ instead, and those demons formed the Leicester Alliance. In the past, Father says there was fighting ("No one got hurt," he reassured Annette when she protested. "Worry not, my dear daughter."), and eventually the Kingdom and the Alliance came to an agreement.

These days, angels and demons steer clear of each other, except for the yearly meeting between Archangel Blaiddyd and the Devil Riegan—as well as their council—who lead the Kingdom and the Alliance, respectively. They speak cordially at these meetings, wherein they decide the fate between two nations and two species at odds.

Angels and demons are not meant to be friends.

But what about Lysithea?

Annette thinks about all the things she has learned in the past two years, and wonders if it's truly impossible for angels and demons to come together. Lysithea is so pretty and smart, and because of Annette, she also has a love for flowers and songs! Annette remembers giving her daisies the first time they met, and teaching her about the songs Mother sings for her. She remembers the excitement they wore when they saw each other a second time, the hours spent playing in the meadows, and how quickly that excitement turned into something else—into _fear._

Fear is...the shadow person in the corner of Annette's room, a result of bad dreams, according to Father. Fear is the spider in the kitchen cabinet, or the height of the drawbridge over the Red Canyon. Fear is Mother threatening no desserts after dinner, or the way Mother and Father stare at each other, so intense and mean that Annette squirms in her seat. Fear is pain, and the way it bites Annette's skin and sets her entire being aflame.

Maybe fire really isn't so good, after all.

Fear is waiting for Lysithea in the meadows, hoping she will arrive even though Annette didn't show up last year. She had been afraid, and so instead of singing her way to the meadows during the first snowfall, she hummed herself to sleep as her house was encased with ice. Over a year has passed since then, and Annette has gotten so much taller, and so much smarter. She wants to talk about wings, horns, demons, and angels with Lysithea. She wants to apologize for being scared. She wants to make things right.

Today, Annette is seven years old.

Lysithea does not come, and Annette gives up once the sun has set into the distant sky.

The march back home is slow and sad, indeed.

/

/

Today, Lysithea is ten years old.

She has not seen Annette in over five years, and hates herself for secretly hoping that she hasn't forgotten about her—even though Lysithea is the one actively avoiding her—since then.

She remembers the girl with flame bright hair, oceanic eyes, and a voice that puts the songbirds to shame. She remembers daisies soaked with sweat, yellow-stained fingers, and a smile too bright to be fake. She remembers snowfall, white little bells hanging from a stem that do not ring, but do not wilt, either—and the pure white feathers emerging from Candlelight's back, sprouting like a horrific flower come to life.

She remembers Annette, even when she shouldn't do such a thing.

And she regrets everything she _has_ done since then. "You must focus on your studies," Father says, effectively pulling her out of her memories. "Once you are of age, you may be chosen by House Riegan to join the Roundtable Conference—you will represent House Ordelia in the talks between us and the angels."

Lysithea sighs. Of course, she is smart, having been raised from birth to be wickedly clever and cunning. Of course, she is adept at magic, because as a demon and as a sorceress-in-training, black magic spells are like second nature to her. Of course she is hardworking, for she has spent the past five years of her life training for a singular seat on the council—a singular _moment_ in the far-off future.

Of course she is already perfect. Father never let her be otherwise.

"I know," she says. "I will make our family proud, Father."

He smiles, weary, and places a hand on her thin shoulder. "Good. You must not fail us, Lysithea. You must not get distracted."

As he says this, her gaze drifts to the ornaments in her room. Her domain is mostly clean, well-kept, and decorated in books. But right above her bed, hanging from the headboard, is a string of flowers running along from one end to the other: dried daisies and snow bells encased in resin.

Lysithea clenches her fists and nods again. "Yes, Father."

/

/

Today, Annette is twelve years old.

She has long forgotten about Lysithea, of Winter and Demonic Origins, and instead occupies her days with overzealous study. She learns everything she can possibly comprehend at her level, going into old history books and poring through volumes of angelology. She practices magic of all kinds, both offensive and healing, though she greatly excels at offensive wind magic. She summons gales to blow autumn leaves away from the Dominic home, only to be scolded by Father not a moment later.

"Annette," he says. "While magic like yours is not uncommon, know that it is more appropriate for angels to be seen using... _peaceful_ means."

"Peaceful?" Annette stares wide-eyed as the wind dies down, leaves swept at her feet. "What do you mean?"

"...Perhaps, when we arrive at Fhirdiad next week, you should refrain from showing your offensive capabilities. Focus more on healing, and doing well."

"Healing…" Annette's fingers twitch at the thought of it. She is skilled in healing, of course, but wind magic is just so much more fun! Though, if Father wishes it, she will limit her usage of it, for some reason she can't yet know. "Alright, Father. I promise not to blow away the castle at Fhirdiad."

He laughs, earthy and low, and places a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "That's all I ask of you. So why don't we—"

"Can I ask why?"

Ah, he realizes something pivotal: Annette is truly growing up. A younger version of the same girl would simply comply with her father's orders, but time empowers her, and so she stands before him with a strange conviction and subtle defiance. His face softens at this display, but his hand remains on her shoulder all the same. "Because offensive magic is meant to be used in battle, or combat. Unless there is a conflict, most others will associate it with demons."

And just like that, the memory of a wintry girl with crescent horns and burning eyes resurfaces, leaving Annette to struggle with the fact that she hasn't seen her in years. Her hands are relaxed, but in her eyes a storm comes to pass, and she stares holes into the ground to prevent herself from taking it out on her father—as good-willed and naive as he might be.

"I see."

"And if we do well in Fhirdiad, Archangel Blaiddyd might choose you for the junior council during the meeting of angels and demons," he adds, as if that would make her feel better. It _does_ make her feel better, but she hates it all the same. "So fret not, Annette. Things will surely work out in your favor."

"They sure will," she mutters, trying to convince herself as well as him.

/

/

Today, Annette is twelve and a half years old. She stands in the sacred castle in Fhirdiad, the capital of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, where Archangel Blaiddyd and other important people reside.

Compared to them, Annette is miniscule. She is a needle in their haystack, a green thumb among pale fingers. The other angels are swathed in white silk and golden armaments, though some feature more colorful pieces—scarves and skirts and bangles that sparkle blue, green, and red. Their wings are wide, purposeful, and some angels even have more than one pair!

The wings on Annette's back are tiny, but wide. They are round and spread outward, like a fan, much like a dove or so Mother says. They are white and petite, capable of flying but not nearly as good as other angels appear to be. Annette makes up for this by conjuring her own wind, but her hands twitch in remembrance of Father's warning.

Do not display your magical capabilities. At least not in front of the Archangel, himself.

And it's at Father's reminder that Annette remembers another important fact: she has been accepted into the junior council for this year's Kingdom-Alliance meeting. It takes place during Harpstring Moon, one month after the new year, and coincidentally, Annette's birth month. Though it is still Red Wolf Moon, Annette has been invited to the castle early, along with the other representatives, in order to accustom herself to Fhirdiad.

Each year, the meeting place alternates between Fhirdiad, the Kingdom capital, and Derdriu, the Alliance capital. This year, the Kingdom has the court, and so all representatives, junior or senior, are invited ahead of time so that preparations can be made.

It is all so... _factual._ It is nothing like a song, rhythmic and natural, joy-inducing. Annette finds her face drawing itself into a frown, and it takes a lot of willpower to combat the dour expression that her lips want to form. This is something she's been dreaming about since she researched angels as a child, and child she still may be, a lot has happened in between then and now.

What if she sees Lysithea in a few months? It is completely possible, as the demons have their own select council of representatives to match the Kingdom's. She doesn't know much about Lysithea except what her memories tell her, and so there is no discerning if Annette's one and only Winter Girl will be making an appearance at the Kingdom capital.

"Miss Dominic?"

Annette turns around. In the grand entrance hall to the castle, there are dozens of angels flying in and out, but this attendee in particular is standing firmly on the ground, smiling at her. His hair is gilded silver, eyes as green as the thawing spring. Annette counts the freckles on his face, but gives up when she realizes he outnumbers her, greatly. And his wings are folded behind him, but just like the wings on Annette's back, his are noticeably small and rounded.

She inhales shortly, then puts on her winning smile. "That's me! Uh, and you are?"

"Ube—er, technically, I'm representing House Gaspard. The Junior Division, that is!" His face pinkens at this knowledge, and Annette feels at ease knowing she's not the only junior representative there. "Actually, only demons can use your full name against you, right?"

Annette thinks of Lysithea, and tries not to wince. "That's right, so I'll go first: I'm Annette Fantine Dominic, representing House Dominic! And you must be—"

"Ashe Ubert, representing House Gaspard!" His smile is bright and sunny, enough to enliven every single freckle along his face. "It's nice to meet you, Annette."

"Likewise!" She giggles behind her hand, a pretty motion she has borrowed from her mother. "So, um, do you know where we're supposed to go? My father just left me at the gates and wished me good luck."

"No kidding?" Ashe rubs at the back of his head. "Goodness, well, I know we each get our own rooms, and I think I've seen yours down the hall from mine. I can take you there, if you'd like!"

"I _would_ like," she agrees. Normally, she is used to refinement—silver and gold in place of metal. Although Ashe is soft and gentle, he gives off a metallic aura, like rusted iron or forged steel. Annette quite likes what she sees in him. "Lead the way, Ashe!"

"Okay! Er, I mean, with pleasure!" He runs down the carpeted hallways, past the blue banners and avoiding the protests of adults. Annette, fearful at first, follows him movement for movement, tripping over nothing but laughing all the while.

If the hay is like this, then she doesn't mind being the needle.

/

/

Today, Annette is twelve years old. The day before, she found her room with the help of Ashe Ubert, and the two of them spent some time exploring the castle. They tired out soon enough, however, and they went to sleep with the sun still bleeding into the sky.

As she wakes up and dresses herself, Annette wonders who else she will meet. Ashe is a kind boy, but he is not the only representative. Annette has memorized the names of all the angels serving under Blaiddyd: Fraldarius, Galatea, Gautier, Martritz, Molinaro, Gaspard, and finally, Dominic. There are many more, but Father says only those families select junior delegates alongside their seniors. Those angels will become her friends, her comrades-in-arms.

Have any of them witnessed a winter in summer, like Annette has? Have any of them seen the beauty in demons, as she once did? She can't help but wonder.

"You must be Annette." She is greeted by a beautiful girl her age, with golden hair split into twin braids, eyes like emeralds but even brighter. Her wings are spindly but long, each feather twice the length of the ones on Annette's back. They are less white and more of a faded gold, with something regal and commanding in every inch of their wingspan. Aside from that, she is also much taller than Annette, and Annie feels the flames flicker inside of her, afraid of this statue that blocks the light.

Then, the girl smiles, and she feels less like a statue and more like a tree. Annette sighs out of relief. "I am. Who are you?"

"I am Ingrid Brandl Galatea," she says while bowing. "Ingrid is fine."

"Nice to meet you, Ingrid! Y-You're so pretty!" Annette blurts out the words before she can even fathom them, turning red at her own admission. "Oh my gosh, that was _so_ weird, I'm sorry! I didn't mean—"

Ingrid giggles, as if it is no consequence of hers. "You're fine, Annette. I appreciate the compliment! If it's okay to say, I think you're pretty, too!"

She burns, and tugs onto the looser ends of her hair for support. They are curled into their usual style: two loops that imitate pigtails, rings like a halo but nowhere near what a halo should be. "R-Really? Thank you! Are the other representatives—"

"Two of the representatives are in the training grounds already," Ingrid begins to explain. Her brows draw together, and Annette feels as if she understands years and years of pain and annoyance. "They're my friends—blockheaded, as ever. If you want, I can introduce you to them! I don't think they know you're here."

"I'd love to meet them," Annette agrees. "Let's go!"

They walk the halls of the castle, side-by-side. With Ingrid, Annette has a sense of calm about her, as if influenced by the graceful Galatea herself. She is so prone to tripping—a bird who still stumbles before flying, or so Mother teases—yet she stays upright the entire time, and even manages to make Ingrid laugh with one of her better jokes.

Then they reach the courtyard, as well as the training grounds, and Annette gasps at the sight. There are flowers and flowers beyond the eye can see, vestiges of snow covering the bushes and layering the dirt. There are marble statues, wooden benches, and a water fountain spouting out crystal streams of blue. Angels are seen flying overhead, although some are accompanied by pegasi, who neigh and whinny before charging forth. Annette's mouth is wide open as she gazes up, prompting Ingrid to redirect her attention elsewhere.

Two boys are fighting it out in the courtyard. One of them is tall, with bright red hair and brown—maybe black? Annette wishes she weren't so nearsighted—eyes, holding a lance as he smiles and blocks attacks successfully. The other is the attacker, wielding a sword and utterly determined in breaking through. His back is turned to Annette, but she can make out the blackness of his hair—a shade so ethereal and galactic that the sunshine makes it blue. He is shorter, but faster, and eventually he passes through the other's defenses.

When they are finished, Ingrid drags Annette over to them, before they can start anew. "Sylvain, Felix, c'mere."

"Okay," the red-haired one—Autumn Smile—says. His wings are large and swooping, like a hawk's, with tawny feathers instead of white plumage.

"Why?" the black-haired one—Dancing Sword—probes. His wings are lean and straight, like an albatross', with startling black feathers intermingled in the white. Annette tries not to stare at the darkness he exudes, but fails miserably.

"Because, I want to introduce you to someone important. This is my friend…" Ingrid gestures to Annette, who fumbles with a curtsy.

"A-Annette Fantine Dominic," she clumsily supplies. "It's nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too! I'm Sylvain Jose Gautier," formerly-Autumn Smile introduces. He bows while grinning, and comes up more summery than his nickname implies. "This here is—"

"Felix Hugo Fraldarius," formerly-Dancing Sword cuts in, before Sylvain can add anything ridiculous to his words. Up close, Annette can tell that Felix's eyes are also like Sylvain's, amber and introspective. However, there is no warmth from Felix, and Annette swears there is more demon than angel in him as he says, "It's nice to meet you, A-Annette."

He acts so cold and aloof, but this was a comment made in jest, with every attempt at _teasing_ Annette. She pouts, and mentally replaces his earlier nickname and his currently existing name with _Evil Villain,_ instead. "Hmph! Whatever!" She crosses her arms and looks to Ingrid with a reddened face. "Do we have to stay here any longer? I don't like hanging out with _boys."_

"As if Ingrid is any better," Felix mutters, ignoring the daggers that Ingrid's eyes behold.

"Maybe we should all eat breakfast _together_ ," Sylvain offers. Annette has written him off as easygoing, but the way he cuts into the conversation now is...calculated, trifled. Almost as if he has done this before. "It's early, but the other juniors are bound to get here any minute. Wouldn't want to miss them like we almost missed Annette, right?"

Sylvain winks at her, and she squirms uncomfortably. How is one supposed to respond to that? Before she can answer, however, Ingrid abruptly takes her arm and escorts her away. "Right," Ingrid calls out over her shoulder, ignoring Sylvain and Felix's protests as they run to catch up with her. "Though I doubt the others are as pigheaded as the two of you!"

/

/

Today, Annette is twelve and a half years old. She learns that Ingrid and Felix are already thirteen, and Sylvain has them all beat by being fifteen years old. When they meet up with Ashe in the hallway, they learn that he is also twelve, but will be turning thirteen this upcoming Wyvern Moon.

"Your birthday is during Harpstring Moon? Do you think we'll still be here by then?" Sylvain asks.

"Well, the meeting _is_ during that month, so maybe?" Annette shrugs. "How many other juniors do we have to meet, anyway?"

"The ones representing Martritz and Molinaro," Ingrid recites dutifully. "Once we're all here, we'll probably meet with Archangel Blaiddyd himself."

At the mention of the archangel, the room goes quiet, and no one says anything or touches their food. There is talk of Blaiddyd, but seldom few have seen him in person. Annette remembers her father saying he is good friends with the man, but by now he has had an 'heir to the throne,' so to speak, and the Blaiddyd they shall meet will probably be his child, rather than the man himself.

Nevertheless, the thought is unnerving. It isn't until a servant walks into the dining hall and announces "May I formally introduce Mercedes von Martritz, representing House Martritz!" that the atmosphere breaks into something more tolerable.

"Oh, goodness, have I interrupted something?"

Annette stands to look, and sees a girl much older than her, with a smile akin to a mother's (not Annette's mother, personally, but any mother at all) and champagne blonde hair, cascading over her shoulder like water. Her eyes are deep and murky, but the color is calming in spite of it all. She walks in a slow and easy stride, with large, owlish wings folded behind her. They are not white in color, either—they are the most cream-colored wings that Annette has ever seen.

She tries to keep her gaze locked with her eyes, instead. "No, we were just talking about you!"

"About me?"

Annette turns to stare at her friends, who seem horrified at her sincerity. She quickly looks back to Mercedes, and attempts to cover up her mistake. "I-It wasn't anything bad! We were just curious about the reps for Martritz and Molinaro, since they're not here yet—though I guess you're here now, which is what I mean to say, and we weren't gossiping or anything, just curious about you, and I'm so, so sorry about the misunderstanding!"

Mercedes giggles. She takes a seat next to Annette, and diffuses any tension with a bright smile. "Now, now, it's quite alright. I was just curious about who I'd meet at a time like this. There is no reason to feel nervous around me."

Annette visibly relaxes, shoulders going from mountainous peaks to smooth hills. "R-Right. My name is Annette Fantine Dominic!" She remembers her mother unwillingly, and impulsively adds, "You can call me Annie!"

Evil Villain raises his eyebrows in surprise, and stares at Annette with something like relish. "Annie, huh? You didn't tell _us_ to call you that."

"Felix," Ingrid warns.

"That's a cute nickname," Sylvain amends.

Ashe is too shocked to reply, but he seems relieved that Mercedes is herself and not like the rest of them, bumbling over their words as if they do not know how to speak.

"It _is_ a cute name," Mercedes tells her. "Okay, how about you call me Mercie, in return? I think it's easier to pronounce than my full name, and much cuter besides!"

Annette grins, and unintentionally places her hand over Mercedes—underneath the table and out of view of the others. Though she leans in, as if Mercedes has some innate warmth attracting her, like a moth to a flame. "Mercie, hmm? I like that! Let's be friends, Mercie!"

Mercedes, for all her dreaminess, seems utterly grounded as she takes Annette's hand in her own, and squeezes it tightly.

"Yes," she says. "Let's."

/

/

Today, Lysithea is eleven, going on twelve in a few weeks. She arrives at Derdriu, the Aquatic Capital, and shakes off her outer layer, as spring has come early in this part of the Alliance. It has been all too easy for her to secure a spot at the Roundtable Conference (Junior Division, unfortunately), and similarly to the other representatives, she is to come to the castle ahead of time in order to prepare for the meeting with the angels in Harpstring Moon.

She knows the names of all the important houses in the Kingdom. She knows Annette will likely be there, adorned in pure white silk and surrounded by her kind. Lysithea has dreaded and anticipated the moment in equal strides. She hopes that nothing will happen, yet wishes for everything to happen.

She can't get distracted, though.

In the Alliance, the angels serving Riegan are numerous, but only a handful of the most trusted families offer their children, in addition to their adults, at the meeting. They are: Ordelia, Gloucester, Goneril, Edmund, Pinelli, Victor, and Kirsten. Though the latter three are on again, off again with the process of sending junior delegates, Lysithea knows for a fact that this year, she will be meeting the sons from those houses, in addition to the others.

There is also the Devil Riegan. Rumors have circulated that Devil Riegan has no 'heir' to call his own, but Lysithea has also heard from her father that she may meet the man's estranged son. To her, it doesn't matter either way—she is not there at Derdriu to make friends. Rather, she is there to finish her business, and exceed as the smartest, strongest mage in all demonkind.

She is there to face Annette with renewed resolve.

Yet, as she steps foot into the castle grounds, she cannot ignore the feeling in her core, which says she has somehow made a mistake. Maybe she should have forgone success in favor of friendship, after all, and reached out to Annette while she still had the chance. As a demon accustomed to darkness, she supposes that her insistence on shutting out the light is natural, if not regretful.

She dreams of Candlelight.

"Hey," a smooth voice calls out to her. "You're new."

She looks up from the ground, not realizing her head was lowered in thought, and meets eyes with a boy who is three seasons at once. He is spring in the way his eyes are so green, but summer in the golden color of his clothes, and the wideness of his smile. Yet autumn exists, too, in dark brown hair and a scent windswept—as well as the strange feeling that he is _hiding something._

Also, he is tall like a tree, but Lysithea has always been on the shorter side. She bristles at his presence, and crosses her arms as if to protect her beating heart. "Yeah, and what of it? Do I know you?"

His smile remains. It is not a very happy smile, Lysithea thinks (and remembers a certain girl who _embodied_ happiness), and therefore she can't understand what it's doing on his face, of all places. But his eyes alight, so she must have said something right. "No, I don't think you do. Most people don't."

"...Okay?" she huffs. "So, are you going to introduce yourself, or are you going to keep standing in my way and effectively blocking my path?"

"Wow, sassy, are we?" His voice does not resonate, but it does not lay flat on the ground, either. It is a song without melody. "No, I guess I can introduce myself. The name's Claude."

He sounds as if he means to offer his hand, but his arms are carefully folded behind his back. To this contradiction, Lysithea scoffs, and resists the urge to shake a hand that isn't there in the first place. "Okay, _Claude._ I'm Lysithea von Ordelia, and I'm very busy. I have no time for this shenanigans."

"Wow, you gave me your full name and everything. What if I wasn't a demon like you? An angel could use that power against you too, y'know."

"As if an angel would be allowed so deep into the castle grounds," Lysithea snaps. "And besides, you have horns, just like the rest of us. Seriously, is this a game with you? I'm in no mood to play."

He tilts his head curiously, one hand cupped under his chin while the other supports his elbow. "I see, I see. You're very observant, Lysithea. In any case, do you even know where to go once you pass through the doors? Assuming this is your first time in Derdriu, which it _is,_ then that means you have no idea where to go, right?" Claude hums at this realization while Lysithea stirs angrily. "Come on, you could stand to be a little nicer to the guy that wants to help you."

"Is that what you're trying to do? Help me?" She suppresses a sigh but fails. "Oh, fine. Show me the way, Claude. But keep your snide remarks to yourself."

"Can do!" He swivels on his heels, and makes his way over to the main entrance of the castle. Past a short flight of wide steps, Lysithea sees guards at their posts, appearing rather relaxed despite the position they hold. Like most demons, they are adorned in black, but Lysithea knows it is common to also wear colorful garments, or even white on rare occasions. She herself is clothed in an indigo dress, with her hair worn loose until it falls at her waist. Perhaps tomorrow she will also wear black.

As they step inside, Lysithea sees Castle Derdriu in all its glory. Unlike the dark exterior, the inside is awash with gold and green: earthy tones that make it feel less like a castle, and more like the forests surrounding the city. There are tapestries and portraits, but also thick rugs that reach the end of the halls, and strange beads hanging in doorways with animal furs tapered up to the sides.

"I like your horns, by the way," Claude says as he walks down the hall. He doesn't even look over his shoulder to see the horns in question, but Lysithea knows he has analyzed her in full the moment they met each other. "The broken one is especially nice."

She doesn't know what to say to that, so she settles for a "Thank you" and leaves it at that.

As Lysithea follows Claude's lead, however, she realizes his horns—from a certain angle, although perhaps from _every_ angle, now that she thinks about it—are very similar to a deer's antlers.

/

/

Today, Lysithea is eleven, turning twelve years old in a few weeks. She has been shown to her room (which is bigger than her room at home and her family's living room combined), in a gilded hallway to the west of the entrance hall. There are similar rooms like hers in the same hallway, and she realizes those are meant for the other representatives as they arrive.

"But you're the first one to show up," Claude comments. He doesn't leave as soon as he's done showing the room to Lysithea. Instead, he occupies the study chair, and kicks his feet up on the desk with little regard. "I think Edmund and Gloucester will be here later today, though. Goneril is going to be fashionably late, as always."

Her stomach feels like a kettle reaching its boiling point. She pretends to be cold—icicles and frost—in order to combat the steaming discomfort. "You seem to be well-acquainted with the important Houses of the Alliance," she says. "Are you a servant at the castle? I can only imagine how close you must be to Devil Riegan to know all this."

"Oh, please, knowing the names of the so-called 'Lords' of the Alliance is common knowledge." Claude dismisses her implications with a simple wave, but still provides some insight to her unspoken question. "Though knowing their habits—like if the Gonerils prefer rose-petal tea, or if the Gloucesters resent Riegan for being ancestored in the Kingdom—is another thing."

Lysithea gasps. She knows of those things, too, of course, but she has been told by Father that it is unbecoming of common demons to speak of the angelic roots of their kind—a taboo regarded by all demons, though people like Lysithea would probably be forgiven for such a transgression.

But for Claude to talk so freely about important matters, as if he has a say in them? Preposterous!

"Wow, I know the Alliance is more... _casual_ than the Kingdom at times, but this is going too far. What would the Devil Riegan say if he could hear you now?"

"He'd probably scold me. Or ground me, depending on the severity of my crimes."

Her blood runs cold. "What?"

Claude smirks, showing the faintest hint of genuine joy, as he stands to his feet and nears her. He towers over Lysithea, he really does, and his gleaming eyes are nothing but helpful to the authoritative presence he now exudes. "I guess I never properly introduced myself, did I? I'm Claude _von Riegan—_ " he places a hand over his chest in fake gratitude— "the son of the Devil himself."

"Oh—" Lysithea can't breathe, and so her words are unfiltered as they come— "you're just the _worst._ "

/

/

Today, Annette is thirteen years old. The fated meeting of angels and demons takes place one day after her birthday, which she is grateful for, because it means people will stop focusing on her, and instead give their attention to politics.

Yet just as the earth appreciates fire for starting it anew, Annette appreciates her friends' gifts on her special day. She has spent a little less than half a year at Fhirdiad, and keeps in touch with her family at home via letters. Yet as the days go on, she finds herself enjoying the company of those around her in greater amounts.

Including Dimitri. Three days after she first met Mercedes and the others, another boy (tall, dark, with hair like silver snow) appeared, and he bowed politely before introducing himself as Dedue Molinaro, the junior representative for House Molinaro. Right after him, the representatives were all summoned to the throne room, where they met Archangel Blaiddyd for the first time.

Or rather, his son. His name is Dimitri, and he is his father's spitting image of golden hair and sea-blue eyes, though his own hair is short and he lacks a beard. But he smiles upon seeing Ingrid, Felix, and Sylvain—apparently those four have been friends all their lives. Annette feels out of place, but Dimitri reassures her and the others that they are all his friends, now, and that he looks forward to working with them.

On the day of her birthday, Annette is paid lavishly in love and affection. Mercie bakes her a cake ("Red velvet," she happily supplies. "Your favorite!"), Ingrid bestows her two black ribbons ("For your pretty hair," she hums), and Dedue offers her a bouquet of flowers, which he doesn't explain, but she suspects he grew himself, anyway.

Sylvain invites her to dinner (and gifts her a book outlining political treatises from the past—something she was looking forward to reading, actually), while Felix tosses her a small bag and calls it a day (inside is a necklace: simple silver chain, with a metal four-leaf-clover charm hanging from its center. She quite likes it). Dimitri gives her a dagger ("Is it so strange?" he asks while blushing. "I love it!" Annette reassures him, because really, she does), and the adults all wish her well as they pass her by.

Even when her birthday is over, Annette is riding a wave of joyous energy that doesn't let up. She skips down the hallways, inspired and playful.

She isn't ready for what happens next.

See, the day after her birthday, demons begin their ascent to Fhirdiad. Most demons are not known to have wings, and while some of them do, others choose to apparate as their means of transportation. As in, Annette watches swamps of darkness coagulate on the marble floors, and witnesses demons as they rise from the miasma, oozing shadows and commanding fear at once. Dozens of black holes open up within the palace, and one-by-one, demons emerge from the void, as if being birthed.

Today, Annette is thirteen years old. She is standing in the gardens, watching as yet another demon appears from the darkness—a vortex of blackness set against the colorful grass and the spiky rose bushes.

Lysithea comes, and Annette remembers her all over again: remembers her snowfall hair, peachy eyes, and the sound of her voice. She remembers the flowers given to her, the songs sung about happy days, two girls who were naive of the differences between them—naive of the difference between summer and winter.

Lysithea's eyes open, and like roses, they sparkle in full bloom.

Then they darken, at the sight of what must be a wildfire to her: intrusive, loud, fiery, stubborn, and unending Annette.

She smiles, in spite of the pain she feels. "Hello, Lysithea," Annette says through gritted teeth. "It's been a while."


End file.
